Taking Care of Business
by Rednikjow
Summary: Filling for a prompt at the LJ SPN KINK Community: Dean always comes back to their room sticky and sore and sometimes dazed - maybe he's been given alcohol/drugs - but with a pocket full of green, and Sam always makes sure he's clean and sits with him until he sleeps.


It wasn't until a few months ago that Sam started to notice it. Whether he deliberately ignored it up until now or was simply too blind to see it he didn't know. But now reality was flashing him in the face like a bright neon sign and hitting him in the gut like a freight train. How could he have been so ignorant, how could he not have seen the signs until now?

At first he didn't know that Dean stayed out that late. When they were younger his older brother used to tuck Sam in at a reasonable hour and then wait by his side until Sam had fallen asleep, so what his older brother did while was blissfully unaware in dreamland was a mystery to Sam. When he got older, too old for Dean to care for like he used to, Dean would excuse himself with a date, a job or the lack of groceries in the crummy motel room. Sam didn't question his brother's hour-long, late-night shopping back then. Now the excuses seemed silly to him and he couldn't understand why he'd fallen for them in the first place.

It happened every other night, usually five times a week. His brother would return home in the dead of the night, trying his best to keep quiet as he entered the dark motel room, hoping to whatever God he didn't believe in that Sam was asleep so he didn't hear him. But he never was asleep. As soon as Dean closed the creaky motel door behind him Sam was there with him, silently taking his brother's jacket and laying it down on a nearby surface, treating the beaten leather bomber as if it was the most precious thing in the world. Sometimes Dean would seem more bowlegged than he usually did, other times his lips would be red and swollen. No matter how Dean looked Sam would never judge his brother, no matter what he did or looked like.

He'd help Dean with his clothes, always trying to avoid looking at the bundle of green dollar bills that were stuffed in the back pocket of his brother's jeans, and make sure there were no serious injuries on him. Sometimes they could be rough on Dean, cut him and bite him to leave their mark on his freckle-dusted skin. Then the bundle of money in his pocket would be thicker, notes higher than they usually were. Sam hated those nights the most, even if it meant having a full stomach the following morning. Dean would never object to Sam stripping him, never furrow his brows when Sam shuffled between his older brother's legs to check him for cuts and bruises that he may have gotten during the last few hours. Everything, every little exchange of touches between the two brothers, happened in complete and utter silence, gentle touches exchanged in the dim light of a rusty bedside lamp. Dean mostly just sat at the edge of his bed, quiet and pliant as Sam tended to his wounds before aiding him towards the bathroom so he could wash up for the night.

Sometimes it wasn't a pretty sight. More often than not Dean had clear fluids trickling down his inner thighs, his boxers would be damp and wet - the small of musk and spunk heavy and poignant in the threadbare cotton when Sam eased them down his legs. It wasn't Dean's scent. It was from someone older, more masculine. The stench was from someone unclean, someone who didn't care about the safety and well-being of the body he bought.

Sometimes Sam would linger next to the tub, watch his brother stare at the moldy tiles for long, endless minutes before he started cleaning himself up with the lukewarm water and cheap motel soap. Occasionally Sam would help Dean wash his back; cleaning the freckled skin gingerly with a rough sponge or his bare hands - making sure there were no lingering grime left on him when he was done, skin scrubbed raw and pink. The length of the bath varied. Sometimes it felt like brief minutes, other times it felt like they had been sitting in the small bathrooms for hours. But no matter how Dean took to get himself clean and gather his thoughts Sam would always wait by his side - watching his older brother in silent worry as the blonde's fingertips turned pale and wrinkly from sitting in the water for too long.

A clean pair of boxers and a pair of threadbare sweatpants would be laid out for Dean on the bed as he dried off - slowly and meticulously - and Sam would make sure that Dean's dirty clothes were put away in the laundry bag, forgotten and hidden for the rest of the night. Sam would take them to the nearest laundromat in the morning so Dean wouldn't have to deal with it. Often he would wait a day or two - let the pile of clothes gather - but when the musky stench was too much for either of them to handle he would bring the modest bag out of the room. Sometimes a shirt or a pair of boxers couldn't be salvaged and Sam would throw them out the following morning, fabric torn and dirtied with semen, saliva and sometimes blood.

When Dean was dressed once again Sam would bring him a tall glass of water and a Tylenol if he needed it, depending on how glazed his brother's eyes were and how he was responding to Sam's gentle touches. Sam would always make sure Dean drank the entire glass before he lay down on his bed, carefully tugging his brother in underneath the flimsy covers before joining him on the narrow mattress. They usually didn't share a bed, only on nights like these. When they were alone and Dean's dazed eyes told Sam that he needed him. Then Sam would stay by his brother's side, arm wound protectively around his larger brother's waist as he listened to Dean's quiet breathing, patiently waiting for him to slumber off.

The bundle of notes lay discarded on the floor, uncounted and unrolled. Sam never dared to count them. He was afraid of what Dean was charging for selling his body like this, how much they would have to pay for his hand, his mouth or his ass. How many or how few clients did he have to take per night in order to bring the bundles of notes home? Judging by the more than often wrecked look on Dean's face and the limp in his walk, he'd seen more men in one night than Sam could count on one hand.

That thought scared him. It scared him to think that his older brother, his protector and keeper for the past thirteen years, was out there offering himself up to strangers - letting them do with him as they pleased for an unknown amount of money. Despite the fact that Dean knew very well how to handle himself against monsters, ghouls and ghosts, Sam was afraid of what might happen to Dean in the enclosed space of a truck driver's cabin. A gunshot to the head was a lot deadlier than the cold hands of a vengeful spirit and he would rather have his brother die during a hunt than with his pants around in ankles in a sleazy bathroom. He wanted his brother to die like the hero he was.

But not yet. Because Sam still needed Dean and when he huddled up next to his older brother on their shared bed, lanky arms wrapped around his older brother's larger frame in a weak attempt to protect him, Sam felt like Dean needed him as well.


End file.
